Last
by ErduanaOmeragic
Summary: AU: They say that people die twice. First when they stop breathing. Then again when their name is spoken for the last time. Sherlock died for the second time when John Watson said his last word.
1. Chapter 1

**Last**

_They say people die twice._

_Once when they stop breathing._

_Then again when their name is spoken for the last time._

**Part 1: The Reichenbach Fall**

John stepped out of the cab right as it reached St. Bart's Hospital. He was worried, to say the least. After running back to Baker Street, he found Mrs. Hudson well and alive. One only had to connect the dots to see what was really going on. He hailed a taxi with haste and prompted the driver to go with full speed towards the hospital. Just as he was making his way to the doors of St. Bart's, his phone started ringing. It was Sherlock.

"Hello?" John said, looking around for his friend.

Sherlock answered cool and casual. "John."

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" It was all John could do to keep the worry out of his voice.

"Turn around, and walk back the way you came, now." His voice was demanding.

"No, I'm coming in." John wasn't going to leave Sherlock now.

"Just do as I ask," Sherlock persisted.

Bewildered, John asked, "Where?" as he continued walking down the road.

Then, Sherlock urgently said, "Stop there."

"Sherlock?" John replied.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

John looked up, his face filling with horror as he saw Sherlock on top of the hospital. "Oh, God."

"I... I... I can't come down, so we'll... we'll just have to do it like this." Sherlock tried his best to keep his voice calm. For John.

John anxiously asked, "What's going on?" His eyes never moving off of Sherlock.

"An apology. It's all true."

"Wh-what?" John couldn't understand. What could Sherlock possibly have to apologize for?

Sherlock took a deep breath and said, "Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." He turned around to look at the lifeless body of the villain.

John was completely and utterly confused by this statement. "Why are you saying this?"

Sherlock turned back to look at John, his voice breaking, "I'm a fake." He spat the words out, as if they were poison in his mouth.

"Sherlock... " John began.

Sherlock's voice started to become tearful, yet he tried to stay strong for John.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met... the _first time we met_, you knew all about my sister, right?" There was a hint of desperation in his voice, desperation to get Sherlock back down next to John, where he belonged.

"Nobody could be the clever," Sherlock stated, in almost a mocking tone.

"_You_ could." John wasn't giving up on Sherlock. Not now.

Sherlock gave a nervous laugh and gazed at his friend, a single tear trailing down his face. "I researched you," he began. "Before we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you."

There was a pause, then he started again.

"It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

John closed his eyes and shook his head repeatedly. "No. All right, stop it now." He started to walk closer towards the hospital.

"No, stay _exactly_ where you are," Sherlock commanded, with a sense of urgency in his voice.

John stopped and went back to where he was standing. "All right." He held his hands up to show his surrender.

Sherlock's breathing had sped up by now, and he stretched his hand out toward his friend. "Keep your eyes fixed on me," he said, his voice frantic. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call - it's, er... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they - leave a note?"

John shook his head, stressed, then the realization hit him, and he asked, "Leave a note when?" he asked, with a shaky voice.

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't."

Sherlock looked at John for several seconds, glanced forward, then dropped the phone onto the roof.

"No. _SHERLOCK!_"

But it's too late. Sherlock raised his arms and fell, plummeting toward the ground. Time stood still as John stood horror struck, watching his only friend greet Death with open arms.

Then the body hit the ground. John couldn't hear anything, couldn't see anything; the only thing that was on his mind was getting to Sherlock as fast as he could. He hurried to the building, but a cyclist ran into him, ramming John into the concrete. Grimacing with pain, John slowly forced himself to stand up and hauled himself over to where Sherlock was laying.

"Sherlock, Sherlock..." John pleaded, his voice barely a whisper.

As he reached the crowd, he pushed through saying, "I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please. No, he's my friend. He's my friend, please."

John reached Sherlock and frantically began to search for a pulse. Two people tried to pry him away, but he clung onto Sherlock as if it depended on his life. Once they finally pulled him off, more medics arrived with a stretcher.

"Please, let me just..." John began, but the words stuck in his mouth.

The impact of his run in with the concrete started to take it's toll on John. His knees gave out, and his head was pounding. The medics placed Sherlock onto the stretcher, revealing his bloodied face and wide eyes. "Jesus, no... Oh, God, no."

John tried to stand up, to follow Sherlock, but he fell back down. As the onlookers supported John, Sherlock was wheeled away on the stretcher, leaving a dazed and uncomprehensive John behind him. John stared blindly in the direction his friend's body was taken, his face blank.

Sherlock had stopped breathing. He had died for the first time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2: His Last Word**

John sat alone in his study. He knew his time was ending, and he concluded that he wanted to leave with no regrets. He had come to terms with every decision he made. John dedicated the last few days to think about his life.

He thought about his childhood, growing up with his sister, Harry, and getting into tiny quarrels over nicked Smurfs and broken Action Man's. He thought about his time at the University of London; he reminisced over his pride when he first received his medical degree.

John's thoughts wandered back to his time in the British Army; he started to think about all the lives he saved then and wondered what had become of them, what they went on to do after the war. He thought about the Battle of Maiwand, and the memory of screams and sounds of shots and fire came back. His old wound tingled as he recalled the pain of the bullet etching itself into his shoulder.

He started to think about times after the war, when he was discharged from service because of his wound. He thought about his meeting with Stamford and how that impacted his life... His mind started to think for itself, going back to the times of 221B Baker Street..._ No,_ he told himself,_ I can't think about him. Not now._

So he moved on. He recollected his memories about his late wife, Mary Morstan. His blonde beauty. He loved Mary, everything about her. From her pale skin, to her way with kids. John hated to think about her, though. It brought back memories that he would rather have buried deep down, under lock and key. But he forced himself to think back to those last moments he had with Mary, repeatedly telling himself that he wanted to leave with no regrets.

He brought himself to think about her last day. She tried to stay strong for John. She laughed at silly jokes, and made small talk with anyone who came to say their last farewells. He remembered those last minutes when Mary and John just sat together, the silence conveying an entire conversation. Those final words that needed to be said, the last tears that needed to be shed. They had only minutes together, yet they made it last a lifetime.

He knew his time was almost up now, that it was close to the end for him, that the lights were dimming. He also knew that it was time to settle one last choice. He knew he had to make amends with one last person.

John grabbed his overcoat and an old deerstalker. He softly shut the door after himself, and stepped into the cold, brisk air of the autumn weather. He took small steps, his weak legs barely able to hold up the rest of his body. John put his hands in the pockets of the worn-out coat, and, with his head down, made the short walk to the old cemetery down the street.

When he reached the cemetery, he pushed open the creaky door, pushing gathered leaves away by doing so. John walked across the field, looking over the sea of graves. He could've walked blindly, he knew the path that well. He spotted the solid black headstone, standing out amongst the others, as always.

John forced his feet to trudge along; _I have to do this,_ he told himself,_ I have to if I want to leave with no regrets._ Now, he stood in front of the final resting place of his beloved friend, and he took a deep, shaky breath. The last time he was here, he had asked for one more miracle, one last surprise from his friend, and this time, he was asking for forgiveness.

In his head, John went on an entire rant about how sorry he was, how much he regretted never coming back for his friend. He gave a speech to the bones six feet under about how John always thought he was spectacular, about how he deserved someone better than John, someone who would've visited every day, and mourned him by night. Someone... someone else.

He told his old friend how shamed he was by his decision to never look back. John told him how he thought if he looked back, he would be lost. He explained to his friend how, with him, he knew everything. He knew exactly where he was going, even if he didn't know the road that well because his friend would've led the way. But... looking back... he would've lost himself in the memories... he would've tried to live in those moments long gone while knowing his friend would've wanted him to move on. And the last thing John wanted to do was dissappoint his friend.

He only now noticed the tears streaming down his face. With the back of his hand, he wiped them off. _No regrets,_ he reminded himself,_ I can't go like this. No more blaming._ And with that, his mind traveled to the one place that had gathered cobwebs and dust, the one place that waited eagerly for his return. His mind went back to that tiny old flat at 221B Baker Street.

John smiled as he thought about his days in that flat. He remembered all of his flatmate's deductions, as if he had done them yesterday. He remembered killing a man for another man which he had only known for a day. He remembered pink suitcases and creepy brothers. He remembered stolen ashtrays and would-be-exploding pools. He remembered clever women and pricey phones. He remembered oh-so much, but he would never be able to catalog it.

Most of all, he remembered hospitals. He remembered feelings of agony and pain and loneliness and longing. He remembered crazy criminals and assassins. He remembered flashes of anger at his friend for not figuring Moriarty's game out quicker. He remembered being angry at himself for not helping his friend as much as he should have. He hated himself for that, but his friend wouldn't have wanted that, so he let those feelings go away.

Oh, his friend... The one friend he had at the time... Sure, there were other acquaintances, but this one stood out. He was clever, fascinating, charming, and strangely likeable, as well as arrogant, imperious, pompous, and rather mad. _Me and the Madman, _John speculated, _like Batman and Robin. We solved crimes, I blogged about it, and he forgot his pants. A typical day with him. _He let out a small chuckle.

He sucked in a final breath, taking in all that was wonderful about this world. John watched the birds fly from branch to branch, following, with his eyes, a leaf flutter to the ground. He took in the last warm rays of sunshine, then he breathed out, and along with that crowning breath, he said the one thing that had haunted him all his life. The one thing the he had finally come to peace with.

"Sherlock..."

And with that last word, Sherlock died for the second and last time, bringing John Watson along with him.


End file.
